


Out of Dust, Gold

by Elenothar



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - what if, Bard and Thorin actually get along well in the right circumstances, Bard's kids are adorable, Fili leads the company to Erebor, M/M, Thorin remains in Laketwon, character exploration, subtle romance of the more spiritual kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 12:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1604498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard has got enough issues without adding harbouring fugitive dwarves in his home and watching one of them die from a poisoned wound to the list, but he can hardly leave them to the Master's tender mercies now can he?</p><p>What he doesn't expect is to soon owe his life to the irritatingly enigmatic King Under the Mountain, nor for his traitorous children to hang on the dwarf's every word when he tells stories of the days of old.</p><p>It never occurs to him that perhaps their own story would some day end up in the history books.</p><p>(A what if scenario in which Thorin is the one who gets shot by the Morgul shaft.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Dust, Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Hobbitstory Big Bang](http://hobbitstory.livejournal.com/) on LJ.
> 
> Massive thanks to alkjira for brilliantly betaing this mess, and chimerari for getting the ball rolling on the plot idea.
> 
> Do check out the gorgeous art created for this story:
> 
> \- by bofurthurmore, to be found [here](http://adambrown.co.vu/post/85516380841/here-is-my-big-bang-entry-for-the-story-out-of) on tumblr  
> \- by mekare, to be found [here](http://mekare.dreamwidth.org/40334.html)  
> \- by brilcrist TBD  
> \- by ruciful TBD

 

 

*

The lake is calm and pliant beneath him as he cuts through the water with sure strokes of the rudder. Bard takes a look at the sun and curses quietly under his breath; he’s already late for the pick-up of the elven king’s empty barrels and has to hope that they haven’t drifted too far apart yet. Even then he will be home late again, though he’d _promised_ Sigrid that he would be there for their meagre dinner for once and he already knows her half-exhausted, half quietly disappointed and worried face far too well.

He doesn’t need anything else to add to his troubles, be it the daily struggle of feeding his family – sometimes he thinks his children are the only thing he really cares for in this world anymore, long robbed of any other idealism – or trying to keep the Master from making their life even more miserable because of the cursed man’s twisted and paranoid mind.

Bard wrenches his thoughts away from going further down that dark, self-pitying path. He has long ago learned that whining about one’s lot in life doesn’t help anyone; all one can do is bear it with the best grace possible.

Instead he concentrates on pushing the rudder through the water and his old, trusty barge toward its destination, needless though it is as he could probably make the journey in his sleep, so often have his arms gone through the motion.

The shore nears, the estuary of the Forest River, and with it bobbing barrels floating all around the small dock. He’s relieved to see around the right number bumping each other near the dock, but his relief soon turns to apprehension once he’s docked his barge and taken a closer look.

The usually pristine barrels are notched and scraped and generally look like they’ve come through a battlefield.  And there is also only thirteen, not fourteen. Moving quickly – who knows what trouble lurks around him – he stacks the barrel onto his barge, and true to the raised hairs on the back of his neck he has barely rolled the last one on board when a harsh sound splits the quiet tranquillity around him.

A sound that bears a suspicious resemblance to a hoarse shout of pain.

His bow is in his hand, an arrow notched before his mind fully catches up. Foot half-way off the ground, Bard hesitates. He could just undock his barge and leave, no trouble and no more worries for Sigrid especially. But that had been the cry of someone _in pain_ and who would he be if he had a conscience that would let him abandon someone in need? No better than the Master and his cronies, that’s what he would be. Sigrid would understand – she _always_ understands for all that she scolds him for not putting himself first often enough. Now Bain and Tilda… they’re both too much like him, not like their sweet, easy-going mother. Too proud and idealistic and still believing in the good of the world. He had once, too, before life, or perhaps more accurately, death had mercilessly disabused him of that notion.

And then he sets thoughts of his children aside, silent feet having borne him towards the place where the shout had originated and all his focus turns to the scene in front of him. He almost lowers his bow in surprise.

Stumbling over a group of ragged and unkempt dwarves might perhaps not be the most unlikely thing he could’ve thought of, but it comes damn close.

Bard’s eyes narrow as he takes in details of the strange travel group. Thirteen dwarves, one similarly small being he can’t place, all sopping wet and possession-less save for the clothes on their backs. The glistening splashes of blood on the stone next to one of them explains the scream – a black arrowhead, jagged and cruel-looking lies next to the crimson drops and for a moment Bard feels sympathy rise in him; that’s an orc arrow if he’s ever seen one. Then his gaze snaps back to the injured dwarf and he looks upon strong features, a brow furrowed in pain, gritted teeth, and a shoulder crudely bandaged – and yet, even clearly wounded there’s power in the dwarf’s bearing.

Ruthlessly squashing his curiosity, Bard’s grip tightens on his bow as his focus shifts back to the whole group, but it’s already too late. One of the dwarves at the water-side is looking right at him, mouth falling open. Any kind of unwilling fascination is quickly forgotten in the face of a group of dwarves reading itself for attack.

His fingers tighten on the bowstring, sight narrowing onto the burly and most menacing dwarf’s make-shift weapon and he’s about to release the warning shot when –

“Ikhuzh!”

The dark, rumbling voice, only the faintest hint of a tightness born from pain colouring its tone, brings the whole group, including Bard, up short. Much as the dwarf’s bearing indicates, when he speaks one cannot help but listen, not even Bard himself. Angry at himself for such a lapse, Bard tightens his grip once more, but then the white-bearded dwarf speaks up.

“Excuse me, but you’re from Laketown, if I’m not mistaken? That barge over there, it wouldn’t be available for hire, by any chance?”

Bard’s eyes narrow, though he does lower his bow. Focused on this new dwarf, he almost misses the nod of approval their leader sends in the other dwarf’s direction, only to blanch just slightly when the young blonde dwarf next to him continues binding his shoulder now that the immediate danger seems to be defused.

He might be tight for money, but he is no fool. These dwarves spell trouble, all with capital letters – even without considering the fact that a few of them look decidedly shifty-eyes, especially that one with the especially bedraggled vaguely star-like hair-do – and he wants nothing to do with it. With a last glance at their dark-haired leader, whose eyes seem to pierce through him as the dwarf watches his every move, he turns his back and moves back to his barge.

There’s hunger in his belly, only rarely fully sated, and always the memory of his children’s hollow faces in his mind’s eye – they have just about enough to eat at the moment, but who knows how long that will last? – and still he busies himself with preparing his barge for departure, though he listens attentively to every word the white-haired dwarf, apparently their general spokesman, says despite his outward disinterest.

It galls to have his own poverty thrown back into his face by a strange dwarf who doesn’t look like he owns more than the clothes on his back either, but he refuses to be angered.

 _Avoid trouble_.

And then he brings up Bard’s family and he freezes, for just a second.

“And your wife, I’d imagine she’s a beauty.”

He almost laughs, for all that there is no humour to be found in his heart.

“Aye. She was.”

Familiar sorrow curls around his heart, like an old friend. Some part of him will always miss Aldis, his light, even now that her loss lies so many years in the past. But he has the rest of his family and clinging to the past has already proven to be easily fatal.

When he looks up again, he thinks he sees honest contrition and sympathy in the faces of at least some of the dwarves, but it doesn’t matter. He can’t afford any more trouble with the Master, which means that he _simply cannot_ help these dwarves. It wouldn’t faze him as much if one of them wasn’t so clearly wounded and in need of rest and medical attention.

And then he hears ‘pay double’ and knows he’s lost. That much money could keep his family fed for more than a month – adding to that that his conscience is clamouring for him to not keep these dwarves stranded here –no matter how much the mostly bald one glares at him – when they’ve obviously already run into trouble, there’s really not much choice anymore, despite the risks.

“Fine,” he growls, sticking his hand out for the white-haired dwarf to shake. “Get on the barge.”

Stalking over to the rudder, he tries very hard not to notice the dwarf with ice-blue eyes and commanding voice having to lean on another ever so slightly as he clambers on board.

This is not his problem. _Not his problem_.

*

Over the course of a day Thorin has been locked in an elven dungeon – and Thranduil’s to boot, which couldn’t be more galling if it tried – been thrown around in an uncomfortable, hard barrel stinking of wine and got thoroughly drenched in the process, been shot at, trampled on, actually shot, almost suffocated in fish and dragged himself up from icy water through a privy.

Now he is shivering lightly, hair still wet, and his shoulder alternatively feels like it’s on fire or has been dunked into a bucket of ice for too long. Neither sensation is pleasant in the least and the pain radiating from where the arrow-head is still stuck in his flesh isn’t making it any better.

He catches the eye of the man puttering around, handing out blankets and dry clothes – Bard, his name is according to Bilbo and Thorin has had enough of doubting their burglar for a lifetime. The man’s gaze is intent, a clarity of focus in them not everyone can boast of, but as soon as he notices Thorin watching him in turn his gaze slides away from where it has lingered on his bound shoulder and he turns away, leaving Thorin to wonder whether the mixture of curiosity and honest sympathy on the man’s face had only been his own imagination. He scowls; big people, far too hard to read.

The man’s home is surprisingly comely for something built out of creaking wood, and fairly warm. It’s not stone – and Thorin tries not to think about all the water beneath them too much – but it could be worse. And it _is_ a home, he decides, as his gaze sweeps over table, bed, arrangements of vegetables hanging from the ceiling and the dozens of small things that make the spirit of a house, not just a place to live in, well-loved and cared for as best as he its occupants are able.

A prickling at the back of his neck interrupts his musings, and when he turns around he finds the smallest of Bard’s children, Tilda the man had called her, watching him, curiosity glinting in her wide brown eyes.

Thorin’s face softens, all but reflexively – all but a few dwarves are fond of children, as they are so rare in their families, and such an ingrained feeling does not only apply to those of his own folk.

“Are you going to bring us luck?” she asks as soon as she notices his gaze on her and Thorin finds himself taken aback at her unbridled enthusiasm. Not many had welcomed the dwarves so unreservedly, much more usual are barely hidden suspicion and veiled warnings that if something went missing there would be hell to pay. This sweetness, however, he has not encountered often – if at all – on his long travels since they lost their home.

A stab of remorse reminds him just how likely it is that their quest will bring nothing but death and despair to this little one, looking at him innocently and with no hint of guile.

He summons a small smile, and replies gently, “I hope so, muhudith. I hope so.”

Her face scrunches up. “What does that word mean?”

For a moment Thorin hesitates, well aware that he shouldn’t even have said this one word according to their laws, it just slipped out when he wasn’t paying attention, but she’s looking at him, pleading and interested all in one and he says, “Our language doesn’t translate well into your tongue, but the closest meaning in Westron would be ‘blessing that is young’.”

Tilda beams, obviously pleased with that title. Then something vulnerable steals over her face. “Do you think that means that I will bring Da luck? Times are hard.”

The last bit sounds as if she knows the phrase by heard, having heard it time and time again. His heart clenches almost painfully. “I’m sure you already bring him luck. He must be very proud of you.”

And just then Bard’s voice rings out calling for his daughter, and with a last smile at Thorin she skips off to help her father.

Thorin leans back against the wood with a pained hiss, closes his eyes against the glare of the lamp next to him and then opens them again when he senses others approach. If he’d only waited a moment longer he’d have realized the identity of the two dwarves anyway, for two balls of warmth plonk down on either side of him, familiar hair brushing against his shoulders as they lean in.

No words are spoken, but theirs, for now, is not a pained silence but one of comfort taken from simple nearness. And if Thorin’s good hand slips to lie on Kíli’s arm and he leans a little more heavily against Fíli than he usually would, no one has the heart to interrupt the family in their time with each other, short as it is before Balin steps up and quietly clears his throat.

The older dwarf gives the princes a look which has them reluctantly scrambling up from their seats and Thorin tries not to mourn the loss of their warmth at his sides.

“Óin will have to take a look at your wound once he’s stopped shaking from the cold,” Balin murmurs as he sits down in the now empty space next to him, a hint of steel in his voice that makes it clear that Thorin better not argue.

“There is poison in my blood, Balin,” he says frankly, voice quiet enough only for his old friend to hear. He’d hoped, at the very beginning, for it to be infection only, a natural cause for his rising fever, but this is not the time to indulge in denial. “I can already feel it spreading through my body.”

He turns around to see a grief in Balin’s eyes that he’d hoped he would never witness again. Balin had never been one given to foolish hope, always the voice of rationality and Thorin’s eyes widen when the other whispers fiercely, “Don’t you dare give up now, Thorin! You’re not dead yet, you have to _fight_ with everything you have.”

Thorin turns away, emptiness unfurling in his mind. “I haven’t given up, bâhâl, but you know my chances as well as I do. We have nothing to combat the poison, even if we knew exactly what it is.”

Balin opens his mouth, but before he can say anything Thorin pushes his tunic and the crude, now blood-stained bandages applied at the lake aside to reveal the ugly wound marring his shoulder – the formerly relatively small entry point of the arrow head had been wrenched apart when he’d jumped back into his barrel and the shaft had snapped, but that’s not even the most obvious problem. Greenish black lines radiate outwards from the wounds, snaking along towards his heart and breastbone, curling, grasping.

Just as when Thorin first noticed it, sneaking a glance when everyone else was too busy gawking at the town on a lake, the lines speak of something ill beyond a mere wound fever, and it is clear that Balin sees the same for his mouth shuts with an audible click and he swallows once, not even trying to disguise the horror on his face.

“Thorin – ”

Thorin doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t want to hear the anguish in Balin’s voice, the anguish he’s responsible for, intentional or not. He’s almost relieved when Óin stomps over to them, as good a distraction as any, even if it promises more pain in his near future.

And indeed Óin takes one look at the wound and says, slightly too loud, “We need to take the arrow-head out before it gets worse.”

Thorin tries not to shiver under the sudden gaze of everyone in the room and musters his best glare, relieved to find that it makes the dwarves turn back to whatever they’d been doing before – at least they do him the courtesy of pretending they aren’t listening to the healer tending their leader.

Bard’s eyes, though, he thinks he can still feel on him.

“Hold him down,” Óin instructs Balin, and suddenly Dwalin appears on Thorin’s other side. Before he can protest their strong grip, Óin brandishes something in his hand and Thorin barely has the time to wonder where he got a pair of pliers from before the old dwarf sticks the cold metal in his shoulder and pain explodes in his mind.

His body is bucking wildly, convulsing in desperate attempts to get away from the pain. A scream rips from his throat and he screws his eyes shut as he tries to breathe through the pain but it just _won’t end_.

When Óin finally pulls the pliers back, the arrowhead firmly cinched between the tongs, Thorin is all but passed out, though no blessed oblivion has yet found him. He simply focuses on drawing in harsh breaths as Óin binds his shoulder tightly to prevent more blood from spilling and then sets a foul-smelling cup to Thorin’s unresisting lips.

“This will help with the pain, though for a while only,” Óin says and Thorin is far too tired to refuse the liquid.

“Don’t let me rest too long,” he mumbles around a tongue that seems too heavy to form words. “Need to… negotiate…”

His eyes flutter shut.

*

For once Balin does what he is told, though his face is pinched and unhappy when he wakes Thorin in the late hours of the afternoon.

Óin’s concoction and the little bit of rest have worked wonders in so far that Thorin feels he can actually try standing up without immediately keeling over, even if it is only a temporary – and one look at his shoulder and the angry lines that still snake over his skin reveals that it can indeed only be that and nothing else.

“I need to speak to the Master of this town,” he tells Balin, pulling himself up to a seated position. “While I still can. We need supplies and weapons and free passage away from this lake.”

Deep furrows mar Balin’s brow as his eyes flit over Thorin’s slightly trembling form. “Are you sure you’re up to this? We may not receive the warmest welcome and you will have to persuade the Master to help us.”

“And that is why I must go.” Thorin nods decisively, though in truth he is anything but sure that he has the strength – he simply must, there is no alternative. “I am the King under the Mountain and only I have the authority to deal with this man, nor do I think he would listen to anyone else. Perhaps Fíli or Kíli, but I would rather not put them in such a position.”

Balin nods his head in agreement, despite his obvious unhappiness with the whole situation. He moves to help Thorin stand up, but Thorin shakes his head sharply. Between laboured breaths he grits out, “I need to be able to do this on my own, I cannot afford to show weakness to the Master.”

Very slowly Balin draws back, his face dark, but he stays close, ready to catch him were he to fall. All around him his companions hover and Thorin would be annoyed if not for the devotion to _him_ their actions speak of.

“What’s the plan then, Thorin?” Dwalin asks, the gruffness of his voice not quite enough to mask the concern underneath.

Thorin manages a faint but determined smile. “We go talk to the Master of Laketown – without his blessing we have as good as lost.”

He doesn’t notice Bard startle slightly at his name, forehead creasing in deep thought.

Thorin motions Balin to get everyone going, and soon they’re marching through the streets of Laketown, accompanied by hushed whispers all around. They’ve just reached the town square when guards start closing in on them and one particularly burly specimen calls, “Halt! What is your business here, dwarf?”

Behind him Bifur growls something non-flattering, guttural Khuzdul barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of many weapons being drawn and extended towards them.

Thorin looks up at the man’s ruddy face, pointedly ignoring the halberd all but stuck in his face and says calmly, “We wish to talk to the Master of this town.”

“What would _you_ have to talk to him about?” the man sneers.

Thorin can all but feel Dwalin bristle behind him and prays for patience.

“We wish to discuss a matter of… mutual profit,” he says, not quite able to hide the edge in his voice. He has lived with much condescension from the taller folk over the course of his life but it hardly gets easier to accept.

His words, at least, seem to have struck gold, the curious and greedy glint in his eyes heralding the guard’s agreement as surely as dwarves love stone.

They are led further onto the square, and the guard pounds on the tall doors of the town hall. Several dwarves are shifting uneasily, but a glance from Thorin quells any outright comments.

The hall doors fly open and not only one dwarf’s hand instinctively goes to a weapon that isn’t there anymore.

“Who are you to disturb my peace?” the man who can only be the Master, portly and garish, demands, putting his hands on his hips in what he must believe to be an intimidating posture.

“I am Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain,” Thorin proclaims, his voice cascading over the silent crowd, reverberating between walls of wood. “We are the dwarves of Erebor and we have come to reclaim our homeland.”

The excited mutterings that follow, slowly gaining in volume, are hardly unexpected.

“I remember this town and the great days of old,” Thorin continues, his voice grave and earnest. “Fleets of boats lay at harbour, filled with silks and fine gems. This was no forsaken town on a lake! This was the centre of all trade in the North.”

All around him people are nodding to each other, a light gleaming in many eyes.

“I would see those days return. I would relight the great forges of the dwarves and send wealth and riches flowing once more from the halls of Erebor!”

 

A cheer rises from the crowd and Thorin almost sags with relief. He hadn’t been sure that the people would be so receptive to his plans, but then again, what else does a starving man or woman want than more wealth to pay for food?

 

“Wait!” a new voice suddenly calls, and Thorin turns to see Bard pushing through the crowd, brow furrowed and eyes dark. “Have you forgotten what happened to Dale? The fire and ruin that the beast brought upon our ancestors? Is that what you wish to see again?”

Within seconds the mood teeters on the edge of a knife, but before Thorin can open his mouth, the Master speaks up from behind him, clearly already quite enamoured with the idea of riches flowing into his city.

“Now, now, let’s not be hasty in accusing our guests of such things, Bard. These are hard times and we could do with every little bit of help these dwarves are offering.” The smile he turns on Thorin is neither particularly pleasant not kind. “Welcome, I say unto you, King under the Mountain. Be a guest in my hall.”

Thorin inclines his head in tacit thanks amidst the cheering crowd, torn between relief that their proposal has been heard and they still have the chance to make it to the mountain till Durin’s Day and the bitter taste in his mouth at the Master’s greed. He had depended on it, yes, but it doesn’t make it any more honourable of him to exploit these people’s poverty, nor of the Master for only helping due to the prospect of more riches. _And they call dwarves greedy, with eyes for nothing but gold and precious things_.

He is in the process of turning towards the double-doors when Bard steps up to him.

The man bends down and says, quietly enough for only Thorin to hear, “Do you have the right to endanger all these people? To spell their death?”

Thorin doesn’t blink. “I must.”

“Then you will doom us all.”

Bard straightens again, mouth set in a grim line as people cheer all around them.

Their gazes meet, and Thorin catches the briefest glimpse of a soul-crushing fear and despair in the man’s brown eyes before Bard turns away, shoulders bent, slumped beneath an invisible weight. For a moment Thorin watches him go, regret stirring in his heart, then he too turns and focuses on the Master and his crony and on ignoring the ever-growing pain.

The big man loudly calls for a feast to celebrate this day, and a feast he delivers, more food than Thorin has seen for a long time piled upon a long table and yet his stomach turns at the mere thought of food and he barely manages to get through the motions expected of the one occupying the seat of honour.

Someone who doesn’t know his friends like he does would think they are merry, loudly and boisterously as they cheer at the sight of food and ale, but he can see their worry and dejection in the slight drooping of Bofur’s hat, in Bifur’s refusal to even eat greens, in Bombur’s curbed appetite, in Glóin’s furrowed brow, in Nori’s eyes, even shiftier than normal, in Dori’s even louder complaints about everyone else’s uncivilised behaviour, and in Ori’s refusal to even break out his newly acquired single sheaf of parchment. Óin and Balin especially are less than subtle in their constant worried glances in his direction, but he ignores them as best he can as there’s nothing to be done about it. And Dwalin… Dwalin is only silent, and they share one long look that speaks more than words – they had long ago decided that they do not wish for long rambling goodbyes but rather a dignified farewell, if farewell it must be.

Surprisingly it’s _Bilbo’s_ gaze that almost breaks him, so open and vulnerable and clearly full of sorrow. For a while, after Azog and the spiders Thorin forgot that Bilbo is not used to such a life of danger, has not lost loved ones to violence and death in battle like all the others of the company. Having grown close enough to qualify as friends during their journey, this must be a harsh blow to their Hobbit. Thorin catches Bilbo’s gaze only once, inclining his head with a sad but sincere smile in his face and pretends he can’t see the tears that glisten in the other’s eyes, yet unshed – and oh does he hope they will never fall.

For a full hour Thorin pretends merriness, pretends to eat and drink and makes the kind of polite conversation that would be enough to turn his stomach without a deadly poison in his veins, before he finally breaks, the sounds and light and smell simply too much for him to take.

Turning away from the revelry with the excuse of nature’s call, he slumps against the wall outside the hall, a grimace of pain he’s kept in check through sheer bloody-mindedness up till now bleeding onto his face.

Thorin knows that he will never make it to the mountain in his condition, when a few steps already seem daunting and the world slowly darkens around him. He knows that were he to insist on going, he would slow the company down, might ruin any chance they have to find the hidden door in time, might see the quest fail because of his weakness. _Rationally_ he knows this, even though his entire being strains towards that lonely peak, longing to see the halls of his fathers, _his_ halls, the stone of his home one more time before he departs this world.

He knows, and knowing has never been more painful or brought more despair.

This is how Fíli and Kíli find him, many minutes later, leaning against the wall with all his weight, a look of inconsolable grief on his face.

“Uncle,” Fíli whispers, and one look at both their faces is enough to see that they’ve already understood what he has struggled with for most of the day. And it breaks his heart all over again to see the helplessness in their eyes.

“You must lead them, Fíli,” he says quietly, putting as much strength in his words as he can muster. “And you, Kíli, must stand beside your brother and lend him your strength.”

He rummages around in his tunic for a moment, then his hand emerges clenched around the worn piece of parchment he’d kept near his heart and struggled to keep safe throughout their journey. He hands it to Kíli, who stares down at the faded script as if it had personally betrayed him.

Then Thorin grasps the band around his neck and lifts the key, the key to Erebor over his head, wincing slightly at the strain the motion puts on his arm, and holds the heirloom out to Fíli. The key glints in the dim light, lying on the flat of his palm and for a moment Fíli only looks at it, uncomprehending.

“It’s yours now, Fíli,” he murmurs, uncommonly gently and Fíli’s hand trembles when he finally grasps the key off Thorin’s palm.

“But you’re not dead yet!” Kíli suddenly bursts out, half-choking on the words he had never wanted to utter, and Thorin’s face softens even further in the face of his pain. He himself has never been much fazed by the possibility of death, not after everything he’s lived through, but he never wished for his nephews to bear witness to it.

Thorin smiles sadly. “And I will endeavour to keep it that way until… until you return.”

 _If_ they returned. If the dragon didn’t take them from him, too, like he had taken everything else.

Warmth crushes into him, and for the blink of an eye he imagines he can feel it battling the ice spreading through his veins.

“You better, Uncle,” Fíli whispers against his chest. “Amad will kill you if you leave us.”

Thorin almost laughs. “So she would.”

“We’ll make you proud.”

Now he does smile. “I know you will. You always have, even when I did not say it.”

He presses them close for a moment longer, then says, “Can you bring the rest of the company? The Master has offered us lodging for the night and I wish to speak to them.”

They gather, one after another, in the largest bedroom on the landing.

For a long moment Thorin simply stands, looking at all of them, not quite able to completely hide the pain, both physical and mental, visible on his brow.

“As you all know Durin’s Day is nearly upon us.” His eyes lower. “I will not be able to make the rest of the journey with you, my injury will slow us down too much. In my absence I appoint my nephews to lead in my stead. They have my utmost trust.”

Somewhere in the back there’s a pleased blush fighting with pale worry on both Fíli and Kíli’s faces.

“They will need the support of every one of you,” Thorin states clearly, eyes finding Balin for a moment, satisfied to see him nod. If there is anyone he would entrust his nephews to, it is Balin. Dwalin he doesn’t even have to look at to know that he will do his utmost to protect the last of Durin’s heirs. “Not because I believe them incapable, far from that, but because I too needed it.” A few faces go red at that and Thorin makes a point of looking at every one of them, gaze warm. “Do I have your word?”

A solemn chorus of ayes rises in the room, not that Thorin had expected any different. If his company has proven anything so far it’s loyalty, often to the point of blindness.

“Âkmînrukuh,” he murmurs and gives a slight bow. “Enjoy this last night of rest.”

He waits for a moment until normal conversation has resumed, then he slips out of the room as quietly as he can on half-stumbling legs.

“What do you think you are you doing?”

Baling and Óin had immediately followed him and are now eyeing him with looks of equal worry and suspicion.

“There’s something I have to do.”

*

Thorin only has to knock once before the door is wrenched open a slit to reveal Bard’s face – not that he’s surprised, the events of this evening would put anyone on edge.

The man’s face twists in anger, hiding the stark despair still lingering on his face, but before he can slam the door shut in Thorin’s face with a muttered ‘ _no more dwarves, I’ve had_ enough _of dwarves_ ’ Thorin lifts his right hand with the food into view.

Bard’s eyes widen, then his face shutters.

“Are you a common thief now, _King Thorin_?”

The jab at his dishonesty for not outright telling Bard of his identity is clear, but Thorin refuses to feel guilty for it, not when _this_ is the reaction.

“A leader who hordes food and lets his people starve is undeserving of respect,” he returns mildly, trying to ignore the fact that the world is spinning around him and the wall looks really quite comfortable. “Nor does he set himself up to be dealt with fairly.” His lips twist wryly. “I doubt he will even notice that this is missing.”

For a moment Bard looks like he wants to laugh, but then he hardens his expression once more. “Are you trying to bribe me then?”

“I am _trying_ to thank you and do your family some good,” Thorin retorts and then has to take a deep breath to steady himself. He should not show his weakness to someone who might easily exploit it and now that his stubbornness has prevailed and he is here, he sees the right of Balin and Óin’s warnings that it would be unwise to seek out this human who openly opposes their quest, that it would only make his condition worsen.

And yet he had been drawn back here, to Bard, unable to rest until he has tried to soothe some of the despair he is unwillingly heaping on this descendant of Girion. He can admire pragmatism and a will to do right by one’s family, and Bard certainly possesses both.

Bard’s sigh draws him out of his thoughts and then the creak of the door that follows as it is opened farther.

“Come in then, Master dwarf,” Bard says, tone slightly sour but his expression has lost some of its sternness.

Thorin can’t be sure whether the man is letting him in because of the food or because he has noticed that Thorin is all but swaying on the spot, but right now he can’t really bring himself to care, though he does try not to look too grateful when Bard takes the apples, meat and bread from his hand.

Somewhere behind him, beyond the wooden door that Thorin can only ever see as flimsy in contrast to stone, two dwarves look at each other, nod and head back towards the town hall. Or at least that’s what Thorin hopes they’re doing – he might not have protested at their accompanying him which even he had seen as reasonable enough in his current state, but lurking outside a house that Thorin is perfectly safe in for however long he’ll be there would go too far. Even if Nori is a professional lurker.

“So why have you decided to come and die in my home?” Bard asks, almost casually, as he hangs a pot of water over the fire to boil.

Thorin eyes him for a moment, then accepts that, yes, he probably looks ill enough by now to warrant that assumption. Still, he can’t quite hide his dryness when he says, “I would rather avoid that fate, I’m sure you understand. But if you had to depart these lands would you wish to do it in the house of that vile human?”

Bard physically winces. “Point taken.” He looks at Thorin consideringly for a moment, then shrugs and hands him a freshly-filled cup. “As long as you don’t alarm my children you can stay here. Everyone deserves to go with dignity.”

Thorin nods his gratitude, even managing a small if pained smile. The tea is warm between his hands.

It doesn’t take long for Óin to appear, banging on the door until Thorin opens it, murmuring a quick excuse in Bard’s direction.

He closes the door behind him and leans against it from the outside, gaze on the older dwarf.

“You need to go back, Óin,” he says quietly. “I’ve been offered a place to stay here, but I doubt Master Bard wishes to be overrun by dwarves.”

“It’s only me, the others will depart for the mountain in the morn. _My_ place is with the sick,” Óin insists stubbornly, but Thorin is already shaking his head.

“The others need you more, Óin. We both know there’s very little you can do for me, but they,” – he swallows hard – “they are going to potentially face a dragon. Would you be able to live with yourself if you stayed here, watching me slowly die while not too far away you could’ve saved another’s life with your expertise?”

Óin’s shoulders slump, though his face is still set in mulish lines as he tries a last resort. “I will only slow the others down with my old bones.”

Thorin only shakes his head. “There is no outrunning a dragon. And you’ve done fine keeping up with the company for the whole journey so far.”

“Zhahyadeluh, zabadel,” Óin says quietly, inclining his head in defeat. “As you wish.”

He looks at Thorin for a moment, sadness in his eyes. “You’re not coming to say goodbye?”

“I’ve said goodbye already,” Thorin murmurs, not quite desolate, and turns away.

And so Thorin is left alone in this house of men, just as he’d wished and though he’d never wished for a lonely death, it’s still better than to have his loved ones sit next to him, grieving and powerless as they witness him slipping away.

*

For a long while darkness and pain cloud his mind, growing ever darker until he has little success telling reality from hallucination, nor can he stifle his moans of pains any longer.

Thorin doesn’t know how long he spends in that state, approaching death’s doorstep. He knows Bard is there, helping despite his misgivings. He knows that none of the foul smelling concoctions that get forced down his throat do anything to alleviate the pain and the burning inside him.

When the first orc drops through the ceiling he barely distinguishes it from his fevered imaginings, but then there’s a scream that splits the air, high and terrified and it’s so real, so _sharp_ that he knows this can’t be just a fever dream.

“Ækenskield!”

The hiss penetrates his foggy, pain-riddled mind and all his remaining energy is expended when he scrambles away from the incoming blow and falls toward the floor. The impact that follows jars him to the bone and for a moment complete darkness descends before instincts honed by long decades of fighting for his life force him to work through it to consciousness. If he drops under now they’re as good as dead.

Hazy eyes find three more orcs milling about in the room, and realization that they’re dead no matter what crashes into him with the force of a blow. He is too weak to fight, and the children too inexperienced, and Bard alone could not defeat an orc pack – especially not with no melee weapon at hand, desperately defending himself with a piece of chair as he is right now –  for surely there are more not far behind these.

He barely pays heed to the kitchen utensils flying around, nor to the table crashing onto its side as he reaches for the knife concealed in his boot. With a last burst of strength, accompanied by a burst of pain that makes him see white, he hurls the knife into the orc that was about to skewer Bard from behind – and then his mind falls, hanging to conscious thought by a thread as his body collapses beneath him, just as the first arrow cuts through the air.

Only a muddle of sounds reaches his ears, as if coming from a great distance, remote and far away.

 _He saved your life_. A soft voice, high and gentle yet strong like a fresh breeze through the air.

Harsher, yet still melodious. _We don’t have time to care for one sick dwarf if we’re to catch the rest of the orc pack._

_This is not just a dwarf and you well know it, mellon-nin. You are better than that._

And then there are hands on him, on his shoulder and no rationality in the world could’ve stopped him from bucking wildly as a scream lodges in his throat. More hands join the pair pressing something wet into his wounds and words, old words, words of power fill the air.

Thorin opens his eyes to a glowing elf. Clearly his mind has gone overboard with the absurdity of fevered dreams.

*

Hours later lucidity has returned, and so has the pain but it’s much more manageable now. Much to Thorin’s chagrin, the two elves are still there and _of course_ it has to be the ones that captured them only mere days ago. He’s only slightly cheered by the fact that Bard had also looked at them with some suspicion upon his first waking while his children stare in wide-eyed wonder. Then he’d gone on some errant with Bain, tight-lipped enough not to disclose their purpose and had left Thorin alone with his two daughters and the _elves_.

At least they’d made themselves useful by removing the orc carcasses littering the room. Once that is done, however, Thorin finds himself at the receiving end of two piercing stares.

“Don’t think us saving your life means that your quest is condoned, _dwarf_.” The prince’s eyes glitter darkly for all their luminosity.

Thorin hates his vulnerability right now, the fact that he’s all but bound to the bed, too weak to meet that insufferable princeling on equal grounds.

“I have a name, Thranduilion,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “Or would you wish to be addressed _elf_ by all those not of your race?”

Somewhere behind Legolas a noise suspiciously like a muffled snort sounds, but the she-elf’s – Tauriel the princeling had called her – face is carefully blank when his gaze shifts to her.

“I will address you in any way I choose,” Legolas says icily.

Thorin opens his mouth to retort.

And then the house shakes around them, a thin stream of dust flowing to the ground and Thorin has to close his eyes in despair as his heart begins to bleed.

No, no, no, _no_.

When he opens them again, the two children’s eyes are full of fear and even the elves’ facades are cracking to reveal soul-deep dread and he doesn’t want to see it, wants to pretend this isn’t happening.

All around him wood rattles a second time, a cold dose of reality – the beast has awakened.

He can physically _feel_ the eyes of the two elves on him, burning, accusing. _Then you will doom us all_ Bard had said and he’d been right. Thorin clenches his eyes shut tighter, guilt warring with fear and desperation. Seeing Azog had been bad, but seeing Smaug would destroy him.

And yet, even now he cannot bring himself to regret his wish to return home.

The door falls open with a bang and Thorin’s eyes snap open to see Bain tumbling into the room, red-faced and sweating.

“They’ve got Da,” Bain gasps out between sharp bursts of breath.

“Who has got your father? What happened, pen-tithen?” Legolas immediately asks, suddenly all gentle – it would set Thorin’s teeth on edge were he not so grateful for the elf’s gentle handling of the boy.

Bains’ eyes are wide and watery. “The Master’s men. We went to Percy’s house to get the black arrow but then they were waiting for us after and Da told me to run and hide it and I did and – ”

“Breathe, Bain,” Thorin interrupts, though not harshly and the boy’s gaze flits over to him.

Thorin makes a point to breathe in slowly, long and deep despite the pain it causes and after a moment Bain has stopped gulping down air like a drowning man and has calmed somewhat, eyes still fixed firmly on Thorin.

“Now, tell us, what do you mean ‘ _we went to get a black arrow’_?”

“I didn’t _know_ ,” Bain almost whines. “Da never told me. He said that I didn’t need to know.”

“Need to know _what_?” This time it’s Tauriel who asks the question everyone’s thinking.

There is no small amount of wonder next to the fear and the worry on Bain’s face. “That he has the last black arrow that Girion never got to shoot and hid it in an old friend’s house after the first time the Master sent guards to search our house.”

For a moment the room is so silent one could’ve heard a pin drop as two elves and a dwarf stare at the young human in unbridled astonishment.

“And where is the arrow now?” Legolas finally asks, tone careful in a way as if he is too suspicious to hope. If Smaug truly attacked, a black arrow might be their only chance of survival.

“I hid it,” Bain repeated. “But we have to get Da! He knows how to use a wind lance.”

“Where is your father now?” Tauriel asks, trading a meaningful look with her prince.

Bain looks helpless. “I don’t know, I was running away from them. But they probably took him to the gaol.”

The elves trade another glance. “And do you remember where you hid the arrow?”

“Of course I do,” Bain says, for the first time sounding indignant. “But I’m not going back there unless someone goes to help Da.”

Thorin’s mouth twitches. Such spunk and fire in one so young is always refreshing to watch, especially when it’s directed at elves. On the other hand he can only see one way this is going to go and his body already screams in protest at the thought alone.

“I will go with him,” Thorin says, slowly levering himself up from his horizontal position, “while you search for Bard.”

Legolas and Tauriel turn in unison to stare at him.

“ _What_? You’ve only just been healed,” she all but hisses, frown marring her smooth forehead. “You can’t even stand for Valar’s sake!”

Gritting his teeth, his mouth set in a grim line, Thorin plants his feet on the floor and heaves himself up until his whole weight is resting on them. The shocked expressions on the elves’ faces are enough to make the pain rippling through his frame at the movement entirely worth it.

“You forget that we dwarves are more hardy than elves tend to give us credit for,” he says, his tone almost mild despite the challenging glint in his eye. “You must find Bard and get to the wind-lance. There is no _choice_ , you are our only hope of killing the dragon. But I would not let this young one go out there alone as long as I still draw breath and my legs still bear me.”

There is grudging respect in Legolas’ eyes when he inclines his head and says, “As long as you can keep up with him, be my guest. Speed is of the essence.”

Thorin takes a deep breath lest he say something he will (maybe) regret later. “I am aware. This dawdling isn’t helping anyone.”

For a moment it looks like Legolas wants to let loose another sharp retort, but a well-placed elbow from his companion shuts him up again. He nods curtly, and with a gesture towards Tauriel they both vanish into the night through the partially unhinged door as quick and quiet as they’d come.

“Let’s go, young one,” he directs Bain and then, because he knows the pain worry about a loved one can cause, he gentles his voice and says, “Your father will be fine. The elves will find him.”

For a moment Bain gazes at him still and wide-eyed, then he nods jerkily.

“I hid the arrow in a boat near the market.”

Thorin nods at him. “Lead the way. And keep a look-out for orcs, we cannot be certain all of them have been slain.”

They pound away into the darkness, one boy still too young for any of this and one dwarf whose every step pains him but keeps going regardless. Because he must, because they both must.

Bain leads him through the maze of pontoons with the kind of surety that can only be born through familiarity, no step unnecessary and with a surprising speed. Thorin’s shoulder burns and his head swims slightly after only few minutes, but he sets his jaw and soldiers on – he can’t expect to be perfectly fit hours after being saved from death, after all, but he _can_ expect himself to work through the pain and nausea.

Bain slows a little, turns around and says, “Almost there – ”

It probably saved his life, for an orc jumps towards him with a roar and had he been but a pace closer to the dark shadow the creature has emerged from the boy’s mad scramble backwards would not have been enough.

Thorin reacts without thought to his damaged body, new sword from the Master’s armoury in his hand and swinging through the air in the space of a breath. The orc, already caught off guard by the pesky fact that the little human isn’t currently twitching on the end of his blade, can only blink once before Thorin’s sword sinks into his chest. It grunts and slides to the ground and it’s all Thorin can do not to go with it as the pain in his shoulder intensifies and the world swims around him, the appendage less than happy with the sudden movements.

He’s about to breathe a sigh of relief when more guttural cries sound from behind him. His heart thinks and there’s stark fear on Bain’s young face as they both turn towards the noise to find three more orcs charging towards them.

“Go,” Thorin hisses, hefting his sword with some difficulty. “I’ll hold them back.”

Bain stares at him. “But – ”

“I said go! Get the arrow, that’s your priority.”

There’s pain in Bain’s eyes when he turns away and for a moment Thorin wonders why the boy cares about his fate at all, and then he’s gone, leaving Thorin to face the attacking orcs alone. On a good day Thorin would have no problem killing three single orcs, even big and burly ones as these, but this is _not_ a good day and he knows that he may just have survived being poisoned only to find his death on a blade. If this wasn’t his life, the irony would be amusing.

_For Fíli and Kíli. For Dís. For Bard and this town._

One orc dies in his first charge while the second scores a hit over Thorin’s torso – and then a sound he has heard once before more than a century ago fills the air, the furious rush of unnatural wind and great wings beating through the air.

The orc in front of him slams into Thorin, taking them both to the ground, only a desperate stab upwards saving him from disembowelment. The foul creature flops to the side and once more Thorin stares death into the face as the last remaining orc grins down at him wickedly a jagged scimitar raised to fall down on him any second.

A moment later he isn’t dead and the orc is in the process of falling over, an arrow lodged in his skull. Thorin stares at the space it used to occupy in confusion for a little while, then decides to worry about it later, as he’s already perilously close to blacking out. He doesn’t even attempt to rise – he can only hope that Bard and the elves will do the impossible and save them all.

Only hope…

Around him the city begins to burn.

Lying on his back, shoulder in agony and new wounds, shallow though they are, throbbing, dazed and near passing out, Thorin watches Smaug the Terrible fall from the sky like a fiery comet, gold and red,  and thinks that nothing so terrible should ever be so beautiful, not even in its death.

*

Thorin has only vague memories of Bard coming for him, streaked with soot and yet walking like a man relieved of a terrible burden.

He can remember the man cursing quietly at him, alternating between calling him stubborn and a fool and thanking him for saving his boy’s life in as close to an emotional outburst as Bard ever appears to get. He can remember the feel of Bard’s hands and arms as he gently lifts him from the ground and the unfathomable look in his brown eyes as he looks down at Thorin’s bloody face.

He can’t remember most of the way back to Bard’s house, nor can he later recall how he ended up in the oversized bed again.

All he knows is that he opens his eyes to Tilda’s face inches from his own and a high-pitched shriek of “Father, he’s awake!”

And then Bard shoulders into his view, looking surprisingly relieved.

“It’s about time,” he says, a small smile lighting up his face, “I was beginning to think the fabled sturdiness of the dwarves was only a myth.”

Thorin stares at him. “I’m alive.”

It doesn’t feel like he should be, after all that’s happened in the last three days – probability dictates that he should be dead three times over and _yet_ here he is, even his pain levels manageable.

“So you are,” Bard agrees, sounding almost _happy_ and Thorin has to resist the urge to frown at him. “You must have one lucky star shining down on you, Thorin, son of Thráin.”

He snorts. “I doubt the stars have got anything to do with it. Though I do admit to being pleased to still tarry among the living.”

Abruptly he sobers, the reality of yesterday’s events sinking in. Smaug – Smaug had been _awake_. “Has there been any word from the mountain?”

He doesn’t attempt to mask the urgency in his voice and his heart falls at the same time that Bard’s face grows grim.

“No word,” the man says quietly and Thorin has to avert his eyes because he doesn’t want to see the pity in his eyes, nor the belief that no word will come either.

He blinks rapidly, turns his face away. _He will_ not _mourn before it is certain_.

And Bard, displaying a sense of tact that most of his companions usually lack, leaves him to it, gives him the space his body language clearly indicates he needs.

Hours pass and Thorin passes from fitful sleep to muzzy wakefulness and back again. Once Bard shakes him long enough to get some food into him.

Complete lucidity only returns with a vengeance when he hears Sigrid say, tone almost resigned after the few strange days they’ve had, “Da, there’s a raven sitting on the windowsill. It’s staring at us.”

Thorin bolts upright before he remembers his ailments and he lets out a hiss of pain, but soldiers on until he has the window in view. There’s no doubt about its heritage, large and glossy black with intelligent eyes.

“Let him in.”

As soon as the window is open wide enough, the raven hops inside, coming to rest on the headboard of the bed Thorin is still forced to occupy. It watches him with intelligent eyes, then dips its head and croaks, “Greetings, Thorin, son of Thráin, King under the Mountain. I am Roäc, son of Carc, and I have been sent by your kin in the hopes to find you still alive.”

“My kin,” Thorin murmurs, hope once more restoring, “so they all live?”

Roäc dips his glossy head. “Twelve dwarves and a hobbit reside in Erebor now, King.”

For a moment Thorin only breathes, relief so great it robs him of speech coursing through his body.

“That is glad news indeed. And for having brought it I will always hold you in high esteem, Roäc son of Carc. I still remember your father when Thrór was King under the Mountain, and the loyal friends the ravens have always been to us.”

Roäc’s beak does something that Thorin suspects is as close as a bird can come to smiling. “The ravens, too, remember that time. But I have more to tell you. The young prince bid me tell you that news of the dragon’s demise have spread and an army of elves even now departs their forests to march upon the mountain. One of my kin has been sent to Lord Dain of the Iron Hills to ask for aid.” With a sidelong glance at Bard, the raven adds, “The men of this town, too, rally to march. Your company asks for your counsel.”

Thorin sinks back into the pillow behind him, mind awhirl with thoughts and concerns. An army of elves on its way to Erebor, his home - no doubt with those two elves at its helm, for they had been gone the first time he’d woken up. He would be damned if they manage to take back their homeland and their inheritance only to have it grasped away not a fortnight later. So long have they waited and wished and dreamed, failure now would destroy him – that much he knows.

Finally he raises his gaze to Roäc and says, “Tell them to barricade the gates and not let anyone in. I will not have those who denied us help when we desperately needed it invade our home just when we have reclaimed it. I will do what I can from here to avoid conflict.”

Roäc waits for a moment longer, as if to make sure that that is all Thorin has to say, then craws once and takes off, soaring through the window and out into the free air towards the mountain.

For a moment, only a moment, Thorin allows his head to fall back, both in weariness and relief. Then he raises his gaze to look at Bard.

“Is it true? Are your people readying for war?”

For the first time Bard looks honestly uncomfortable. “It is true that many are talking of going to the mountain. After Smaug’s attack they feel it’s their right.”

“Their _right_?” Thorin’s voice is ice-cold. “I promised to pay you fairly, enough even to rebuild Dale and you think it right to march onto my kingdom to take what would be freely enough given by force?” A bitter laugh escapes his mouth. “Twelve dwarves and a hobbit against an army. If you think they would stop at taking what they are reasonably owed you believe in the good of men or any other race more than I.”

Bard’s shoulders slump, and Thorin almost thinks he sees shame for his people on his face. “They would not listen to me were I to urge for calm. You call them ‘my people’ but the truth is that I’m just one of them, just another poor man in a town of poor men. They have no reason to listen to me.”

“Since when does a good man need riches to make himself heard?” Thorin asks, his heart softening at the man’s obvious sincerity. He swallows once, then puts the last of his pride aside – the thought of Fíli and Kíli, of his whole loyal company trapped in the mountain with little supplies and an angry mob outside is more than enough to conquer the last reluctance to ask for help from a man. “I ask you, Bard of Dale, I ask of you that you may talk to the people here. I swear on my fathers that I will give you the gold you deserve, enough to make this city a prosperous one once more; I _cannot_ lose my home again. You have the potential to lead, Bard. You killed the dragon, the people will listen to you.”

Bard stares at him for long seconds, unmoving, then he nods briskly. “I will do what I can.”

Two hours later Bard is standing in the market square and has a whole town spellbound. In the privacy of his own mind, Thorin can just about admit to himself that that includes him as well.

***

Bard rubs at his eyes, stinging with weariness, and wonders if there’s any possibility that he’s just dreamt the last few days that had upended his whole life.

 _Dragonslayer, dragonslayer_ , the shouts of a crowd still echo in his head, the unfamiliar rush of speaking publicly, raising his voice to be heard by hundreds, as they listened to him, _listened_ to _him_ , a bargeman they’d alternatively looked down or pitied after his wife’s death.

It shouldn’t even have been him to kill the beast, not with two far more capable elves beside him – _I do not know how to use this device and we do not have the time for me to learn_ one of them had said, eyeing the windlance, and so it had fallen to him to make the fateful shot because he _did_ know. A family secret, handed down from generation to generation, one he had resented more than cherished for all that it stood for.

And now he stands, leading against the kitchen counter and watches the one he had, in a way, done all this for; certainly the one he had stepped in front of an angered crowd for, to placate them and prevent tempers from making evil choices.

There are lines of pain still visible on Thorin’s face, even as he sits with Bard’s three children, deep voice recounting a tale of heroic deeds long past, but his features have softened ever so slightly since Smaug’s demise and the news that his companions still live. Bard is not someone to delude himself knowingly, not when he knows that he has watched the dwarf enough to notice the barely discernible difference, for his face is always composed, set with a hardness to it that can only be born of great toil. He has watched since he had first lain eyes on Thorin, son of Thráin, as if drawn by a lodestone, impossible to resist. Only hours ago it had disturbed him more, this strange fascination, this hunger for understanding, but now…  now, though he, by extension, brought the dragon’s wrath down upon them, Thorin has saved his life and the life of his son with a selflessness that Bard had never expected to lurk behind those icy eyes. And he sits with the children, patient and calm, where Bard knows that the events of the last few hours should have them shaking and in shock or even in hysterics, not protesting when Tilda leans against him slightly, tiredness in every line of her body, nor when Bain asks for the third time to hear how Thorin had survived the orc attack, nor when Sigrid – his reserved, shy Sigrid – asks to see the dagger that had saved her father’s life.

Then there’s a low rumble of a chuckle at something Sigrid has said, and a gentleness in voice and manner when Thorin says quietly, “Your sister has fallen asleep. We should bring her to the bed.”

Bard can _see_ the wince when Thorin rises from the floor, the tightening of his lips against the pain that both his wounds must afford him, but before he can interfere, Thorin has gathered Tilda up in his arms and moved towards the bed, never even waking her.

When finally the sound of low and measured breaths fills the house, Bard turns to Thorin, who is now leaning on the table with most of his weight.

“You should rest. Your wounds need to heal.”

Thorin meets his gaze, anguish flickering deep inside his eyes. “I cannot, not while the future is so uncertain. An elven army draws near and my kin and friends still stare into danger’s eyes.”

Bard stays silent for a while – there’s nothing _he_ can do to make this situation better, nothing he can say, despite the sudden, fierce desire to see happiness on Thorin’s face rather than worry and sadness. “The two young ones, they are your children?”

Thorin’s lips tilt up, a fondness Bard knows well rising on his face. “You speak of my nephews, though so dear they are to me that they might as well be my sons. My heirs, certainly.”

“Do you not wish for children of your own?” Bard asks, head tilting in curiosity.

Something passes over Thorin’s face, too quick to catch, but he only says, “I would not be suited.”

The question is on the tip of his tongue, but something holds him back; this feels private, not like anything that is his to know, no matter how much they have bonded through peril.

The silence stretches and Thorin looks almost angry at himself for having given such an answer, revealing and yet not at the same time. Bard gets up before something can break, muttering something about getting the fire started before it gets too dark and cold and the dwarf huffs something unintelligible in agreement.

They huddle in front of the merrily crackling fire and Bard refrains from making another comment about how Thorin really should be resting – at least he’s sitting down now, face gilded but pale in the dancing firelight.

No words are spoken, and yet the silence is not an uncomfortable one. Bard does not ask why Thorin seems to avoid looking directly into the firelight and Thorin does not ask why Bard’s hand clenches ever so slightly whenever there’s a particularly loud crackle from the flames.

What a pair they make, hollow-eyed and aged long before their time. But there’s warmth there, too, inexplicably, and when Bard looks over to Thorin once more and finds him fast asleep, head back against the wall, mouth slightly open and dark lashes dipping over pale skin, he cannot seem to help the smile that tugs at his mouth.

***

The sun rises blood-red in its brilliance and Thorin watches the light’s reflection dance on the lake’s small waves in silence. His legs dangle from the pier, feet not even close to the water – from his vantage point directly in front of Bard’s house he can look straight at the sun through an alley of stilted houses. He refuses to blink despite the bright light, the silence surrounding him understatedly oppressive.

Heavy footsteps alert him to Bard’s presence but he doesn’t turn around. If he shifts just a little bit he can see the mountain in between a gap of houses, standing tall and proud as ever, close yet impossibly far away.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed already,” Bard admonishes quietly, and it says volumes about the familiarity Thorin already begins to feel with the man that he doesn’t bite his head off for the remark.

“I’m fine,” he says, shifting a little to the side to make room for Bard to sit next to him, the man’s long legs nearly brushing the water as he settles down next to Thorin. “Dwarves are made of harder stuff than you tall people.”

Bard side-eyes him, clearly sceptical. “You look terrible.”

Thorin shrugs, with one arm only as to avoid jostling his left shoulder more than necessary. “The wounds are healing well.”

It still _hurts_ , a coldness lingering in his limbs only mostly chased away by the athelas and the deep pain of a flesh-wound that went untended for too long, but physical hurt is nothing new to him, nor is he inclined to let a little pain get the better of him – not when there are things that are so much worse.

Bard makes a noise in the back of his throat, half worried half indignant. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

He doesn’t know, in fact, there being no mirror in Bard’s house, but he can well imagine dark circles adorning his eyes and an unhealthily pallid shade to his skin, a certain hollow-eyedness that comes not only from hunger.

For a moment he turns to look at the grim man beside him, seeing the lines on his face gentle as he in turn looks at Thorin, then his gaze returns to the distant peak, shining in the sun.

“This” – he waves vaguely with his right hand – “is all I’ve wished for for well over a century and a half, and yet now that it has come to pass, the dragon dead and my people about to be restored to their home, I only feel empty.” A bitter chuckle escapes his throat. “Look at me, the king of my people, and here I am sitting in safety, an invalid too weak to lead even a single person. I was not the first to lay eyes on the stone of my home again. I was not there to see my home reclaimed. Instead I sent my loyal companions, _my own nephews_ , into almost certain death with nary a word of thanks. That they yet live at all is worthy of a miracle.”

For a moment Bard says nothing, leaving Thorin to stare at the water below in silent misery.

“There is no cowardice in admitting to weakness, Thorin,” Bard finally speaks, “And all your companions made their own choices to follow you, and yes, if need be, go on without you in honour of _you_. Even the youngest of them.”

“ _Weakness_ ,” Thorin spits hollowly, eyes darkening. “What do you know of weakness, Bard, who you are always virtuous? You have never felt it creeping into your mind and twisting your thoughts until an arrow restored full sanity. You have never been shamed like that, nor do you have to live in fear of its return.”

Bard looks at him sharply. “Of what is it you speak?”

Almost unconsciously Thorin draws further into himself, shoulders tightening in defence of an unseen attack.

“What do you know of my grandfather’s rule?”

“Very little,” Bard answers, his gaze clear. “For us men it was long ago.”

“So rumour hasn’t made its rounds then,” Thorin muses, mostly to himself, but then he fixes Bard with an unwavering stare, determined to catalogue every little reaction to what he was about to say. “Thrór was a great king for many years – we had peace then. But as he grew older, a shadow began to grow in his mind, the yearning for gold, ever more gold beginning to drown out everything else” – he swallows hard – “I watched him slip away farther and farther away from us with every day after my grandmother’s death, powerless to do anything to help him. In the end he cared more about the treasure than his own life, or that of the rest of his family.” Thorin barks out a bitter laugh. “He almost killed himself that day when Smaug attacked, trying to jump into the treasury with the dragon inside it, had I not restrained him…” His gaze is far away, remembering the mad glint in eyes that used to be deep and kind, gold shining, and flames licking beloved stone, always the flames. “They call it dragon-sickness and ever has our line been prone to it. Legend goes that in the days of Melkor’s rule of Middle-earth he tempted the dwarves with many things, hoping to secure them as servants among his dark host and when Durin refused him he cursed him and his line to forever hold this weakness. Maybe it is the truth, maybe it is just a myth. It doesn’t much matter. All dwarves are fond of treasure and gold specifically, for we are the ones who dig it out of earth and stone and craft it into shapes of beauty.”

He gazes at Bard, intense and serious, _needing_ him to understand this. “That is what we are, we are craftsmen above all, it’s in our very being from when we were made by the hands of our Maker.” His lips twist. “And it’s not as if the gold doesn’t call to anyone else. Elves and men are as greedy for it as dwarves are most of the time.”

Bard nods silently, too cynical to argue with a point well-made. “And what does this have to do with you?”

Thorin laughs without mirth, only with the taint of bitterness around its edges. “Everything. Everything and nothing. This is what I felt, the closer we drew towards the mountain. The desire to behold our treasure once more, to _own_ it. It crept into my mind, slowly enough to evade immediate notice and yet deadly still.”

“What changed?” Bard asks, regarding him with serious eyes. “I see no madness in you.”

“It’s remarkable how a poisoned arrow and impending death can clear your mind,” he says dryly, casting his gaze towards the mountain once more. “I haven’t felt the same pull towards the treasure since I first realized that I would die. Since I _accepted_ it.” His eyes are haunted when he looks back at Bard. “But I do not know that it is gone for certain. I don’t think I will ever know. What if I return home only to succumb to it? My people deserve a better king than that – I have seen what the madness of a single person can do to a prospering kingdom.”

He doesn’t say that he’s afraid, perhaps more afraid than he has ever been since the day that Smaug attacked. Doesn’t say that the mere thought of committing the same mistakes makes him feel almost physically sick. Doesn’t say that the uncertainty gnawing at him is almost worse.

And still, Bard seems to hear the unspoken words, understand what Thorin has not dared to say.

“The greatest leaders know their weaknesses,” he says quietly, placing a warm hand on Thorin’s shoulder. “I cannot tell you that you will not fall, but I do not _believe_ you will. You have conquered this sickness once already and know its allure now.” The man’s features soften. “The dwarf I have seen is burdened, yes, but also kind to children and loving with his family. You did what you could to make the best out of a bad situation. Who could ask for more than that?”

 _I could_. But still the sincere words warm his heart, and when they finally rise to go back inside he feels a little lighter.

*

They are sitting on the dock once more, Thorin bracketed by Sigrid and Tilda respectively, Bard and Bain on his far sides. His voice is already hoarse from talking so much, the three children’s unending questions and curiosity both a balm and exhausting.

Roäc sweeps out of the sky, looking uncommonly ruffled, and his croak is laced with an urgency Thorin has never heard from any of the ravens of his acquaintance.

“War! Fire!” he croaks, and Thorin is up and standing, his heart pounding with adrenaline so fast that his still healing side gives a throb of pain in protest.

“What is it?!”

Roäc settles down on his shoulder, his claws all but digging into his flesh. “An army of orcs is marching on Erebor, it is led by Azog and his offspring Bolg. They will arrive in two days’ time.”

For a moment the world seems to stand still as Thorin’s mind struggles to grasp the words that reached his ears and then the blood roars in his ears and he has to force his heart to slow down with measured breaths.

“What of Dain?” he asks, as calmly as he can manage, barely aware of Bard stepping up next to him, face drawn and tired.

“Dain Ironfoot and his dwarves are also two days away, it is doubtful they will reach Erebor in time,” Roäc reports and if a raven could sound bleak this would be what it would sound like. “You stand alone, King under the Mountain.”

Thorin closes his eyes, trying to breathe through the image of his nephews and friends lying lifeless in front of the gates of Erebor, so close to home and yet in vain, that assaults his mind. And Bilbo, dead so far from his beloved green homeland that he’s always planned to return to.

“No.”

His gaze snaps up, shocked eyes meeting Bard’s determined ones.

“No, you will not stand alone,” Bard says and there is a fire in his eyes that Thorin hasn’t witnessed before. “The orcs are all our enemies, dwarves, elves and men. Together we can defeat them.”

Thorin opens his mouth to argue, to remind the man of the bleak reality of shattered alliances and long-held grudges, but Bard rebuffs him before the words can leave his mouth.

“King Thranduil has nearly reached us with his host and many of Lake-towns men are still ready to march and do battle. If we call a council now, we can be ready for the orcs when they can.”

“Thranduil will not help us,” Thorin snarls, despite the newfound hope slowly unfurling in his chest. “He cares nothing for the fate of a handful of dwarves.”

“He has as much to lose as we all do,” Bard snaps back, “and all elves hate orcs. Do you truly believe that whatever bad blood is between the two of you would be enough to leave us all to die and the orcs to seize these lands?”

The blunt question brings Thorin up short, his instinctive rage at only hearing Thranduil’s name receding a bit for rational thought to take place.

“I do not know,” he finally admits. “Perhaps if you argued our case and that of Lake-town. But I do not think he would listen to me.”

Bard looks grim. “We have to try.”

He waits for Thorin’s silent nod of assent before he turns to go – and Thorin barely hesitates before following him.

*

Thranduil all but stares at the two of them when they enter the tent side by side, the man and the dwarf, so obviously comfortable in each other’s presence. Thorin’s petty side can’t help but think that this moment alone is almost worth all that transpired before, seeing the open astonishment in those pale eyes before they shutter and return to cold aloofness.

There is tension in Thorin’s shoulders and bearing that not even Bard’s presence can soothe. It would be too much to ask for anything else with an elven army camped all around them, less than a day’s march from the mountain and an orc army on the march. But still, he lets himself be guided to a seat, sits down readily enough and doesn’t even ask why in Mahal’s name the elves brought wine on the way to a battlefield.

(At least it’s good wine – not even Thorin will deny that when it comes to the fruity beverage Thranduil does show a measure of taste.)

“An orc army you say,” Thranduil finally breaks the silence, his pale gaze flitting over Thorin’s grim visage. “Are you certain?”

Thorin takes  a deep breath to control his rising ire. “ _Of course_. A raven brought the news and they have yet to inform us falsely. The orcs are less than a day’s march from the mountain now. If we stand divided we _will_ fall.”

“Tell me then, son of Thráin, how is this my problem? Not even an army of orcs could overwhelm my kingdom.”

Thorin grits his teeth. “It is your problem because they will hardly stop at taking Erebor, they will burn Lake-town and slay all men of that city and then where will your allies be, Elven King? You will be surrounded by darkness on all sides, no one to trade with, no one to help you should you ever need it.” His lips twist. “Not to mention that the treasure that lies within Erebor will be forever out of your reach.”

Thranduil’s head tilts, as if inquisitive. “Are you offering your alliance then, should I agree to fight with you?”

Thorin’s nod is neither happy nor overly enthusiastic but beside him Bard all but smiles and he forges on with a deep breath, “That and… the white jewels you desire shall be yours along with reasonable compensation for your aid.”

Now there’s definitely interest sparkling in the elf’s eyes, though Thorin hopes his logical arguments have something to do with it, not just the promise of payment.

“And if I agree… how would you propose to beat this army? According to you they outnumber us greatly.”

“They do, however I doubt they’re expecting Erebor to stand with allies. If we lure them into the valley, your army and the men of Lake-town willing to fight with us can attack their flanks with the help of my kinsman Dain and the warriors he brings.”

Thranduil tilts his head, a thoughtful glint in his eyes. “Tell me more.”

*

When they finally exit the elf king’s tent, Thorin feels tired to the bones and his wounds are tugging painfully with every step, but he knows he cannot rest now. He will not endure the oncoming war without being at his company’s side where he belongs. He _will not_.

Next to him Bard has fallen into a pensive silence, his long legs bearing him away at a speed Thorin can’t match. When the man realizes he has left him behind, he halts, frown smoothing out from his brow and says, abruptly, “You wish to reach your comrades before the battle begins.”

Slightly surprised, Thorin can only nod. The only expression left on Bard’s face is one of determination.

“Then I will make sure you do.”

Thorin’s mouth almost falls open as he stares at the man he’s come to respect over the last few days.

“What?”

“I will make sure you reach them,” Bard repeats. “I can understand wanting to be at their side when war breaks upon us. Your princes will need you.”

For a moment longer Thorin stands quiet and stunned. “What about your own family?”

Bard shakes his head, though his worry is clear in his eyes. “They’re too young to fight and will remain in Lake-town. Should we fail to gain victory over the orcs at the gates of Erebor then we’re all doomed no matter what, and I could not help them then.”

“But they would die alone.”

Pain tightens the lines on Bard’s face. “I will fight either way, be it at your side or within the ranks of men. I cannot sit by idly as other’s fight for all our survival.”

Thorin nods. That he can certainly understand.

“And what of your troops? Who would you see in charge of the men of Lake-town on the battlefield?”

“How often do I have to tell you, they’re not _my troops_ ,” Bard sighs and continues before Thorin can point out that Bard is the one who talked them into joining their fight in the first place, which basically _does_ make them his troops. “The toll gate keeper, Percy, he used to be a mercenary until he retired to be with his children and grandchildren. He has fought before.”

Thorin raises a brow. “And you trust him enough to give him command in this matter, when any misstep could mean all our deaths?”

“I have known him for decades, Thorin, and there’s none more suited to be found in Lake-town.”

He is quite aware that that’s not exactly a yes, but it will have to do.

“Very well then, you have my thanks. The line of Durin will forever be in your debt.”

Bard snorts. “Now don’t go being all dramatic about it. Come, we should hurry.”

The man leads him through the elf’s camp, along the same route they had entered though without the obvious elf escort that had been present then, until they almost reach the edge.

Thorin stops dead.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

Bard turns from where he’s patting a large black horse and begins putting the bridle over its head. “What?”

“This is a _horse_.”

“Clearly,” Bard agrees, looking puzzled. “The elves were kind enough to lend this one to me.  Lake-town isn’t really the place for such beautiful beasts of the land.”

“Beautiful isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” Thorin grumbles, eyeing the beast warily. “Dwarves are not made for riding.”

Amusement replaces puzzlement on Bard’s face and he murmurs, “Desperate times require desperate measures.”

Still Thorin doesn’t take a step closer.

“I will make sure you won’t fall, Thorin,” Bard says quietly with a new serious note in his voice. “You need only sit behind me and make sure your own grip doesn’t slip. I will take care of the rest.”

Despite the dwarves’ generally completely justified dislike of depending on the goodwill of large beasts with minds of their own – there’s a reason dwarves never keep lifestock despite the obvious advantages of doing so and that reason is mostly that dwarves and animals _do not get along_ – Thorin does feel slightly ridiculous, all but cowering in the face of riding the beast as he is. A pony, he can just about manage, though not gladly, a horse is not that much different, right? Should he not be able to overcome this smallest of obstacles easily? He takes a few grudging steps forward until he stands next to Bard, close enough to feel the horse’s warmth radiating towards him.

“I hope I’ve made my displeasure with this mode of transportation clear enough?”

Bard looks like he’s trying valiantly not to laugh. “Crystal. Now do you want to reach your nephews in time or not? You would never make it in time on foot or on pony.”

Thorin grits his teeth, glaring at the horse. “I am _aware_.”

He watches Bard swing onto the horse’s back in one smooth move and spares a quick thought to wonder how the lakeman has come to be so comfortable around these beasts.

“Are you _certain_ you wish to come with me? There really will be no time for you to return before the army reaches us.”

Bard’s face softens as he looks down at Thorin, now twice his height. “I’m certain,” he says and his voice does not waver. “As I said, the orcs are marching for the mountain, my family will be safe enough. As safe as anyone can be these days. And Percy knows what he’s doing.”

Thorin nods. “Very well then.”

With a last suspicious look at the horse, he takes another reluctant step closer and lets himself be drawn up onto the horse behind Bard. It’s not exactly a comfortable fit, but Thorin can’t say he really cares as long as it will get him to the mountain in time.

(Perhaps he also derives no little amount of satisfaction from the thought that, should the battle last longer, they might just be lamentably forced to eat the beast to survive. Though, admittedly, Bard looks like he would be spectacularly unappreciative of the idea, no matter how sensible it clearly is.)

One thing he certainly has to admit is that the horse does cover the ground admirably fast, and though they have to slow down a little at the break of night, the moon fortunately bright enough in the sky to light their way, Thorin estimates that it is not yet midnight when they reach the last stretch of land before the great gates of Erebor.

And then Bard urges the horse into a gallop on the straight even road and Thorin has to jerk forward to hold on to the man tighter in fear of falling and all other thought leaves his mind for a while as the wind rushes past them.

The dark shadow of the mountain looms closer, and yet Thorin has rarely felt more at peace than he does now, approaching his home born by swift legs, Bard’s warmth assuring he would not fall. Would not fall.

There are a handful of torches burning in the gate, on a makeshift barricade that Thorin is both relieved and proud to see. The horse’s hooves fall loudly on cobbled stone on the last few meters and finally Bard brings the steed to a halt, patting its neck as it snuffles tiredly.

Thorin isn’t paying attention anymore, for he can see several dark shapes peeking over the barrier.

“Uncle!”

The twin shouts are the first thing he hears once the roaring in his ears has subsided and he’s managed to get off the horse in a manner that, while not dignified, hopefully doesn’t look entirely ridiculous.

And then the two blurs are upon him and relief so heady his legs almost want to give way courses through him, even if he can’t quite help wincing a little as he’s crushed in his nephews’ simultaneous embrace.

Fíli draws back first, a concerned look on his face, Thorin’s wince not unnoticed. “How do you feel, Uncle? We were so worried about you.”

Thorin is grateful he didn’t say that they thought they would never see him again.

“I’m healing,” he says with a small smile. “Do not concern yourself overmuch with my condition, I am more than well enough to fight.”

Identical frowns meet his gaze.

“You nearly died,” Kíli points out, rather unnecessarily in Thorin’s opinion.

“I did,” he acknowledges. “And then I got better.”

They stare at each other for a moment, then Fíli bursts out, sounding more than slightly hysterical, “Is that all you’ve got to say? ‘ _I got better_ ’?!”

Thorin draws back a little, though he refuses to show his sadness at the pain he has caused, if involuntarily. “Isn’t that what matters?” he asks quietly. He seeks both their gazes, brown and blue, holds them with his own until they lie open to each other.

Kíli explosively exhales in frustration. “It matters, yes, but the fact that you _almost died_ matters as well!” His voice grows smaller. “That you almost left us.”

“Oh, givasha,” he sighs, and finds himself helpless not to draw them back into an embrace, bestowing a kiss on each of their (in one case more and in the other slightly less) unruly heads of hair.

When he finally does gently turn them away, it is to greet the rest of his loyal company, to see the relieved smile on Balin’s face, the glare that Dwalin tries hopelessly to sustain, Óin waggling his squashed ear trumpet triumphantly and Ori scribbling hectically in his smallest notebook, the only one the elves hadn’t confiscated. Even Nori’s lips are slightly quirked in something that approximates a smile, and that in itself tells him quite clearly how worried they all had been.

And yet, as much as he wishes to linger in this moment, there is an army coming and time to prepare is already short and close to running out.

Regret weighs his heart when he says, low and clear, “Tomorrow we must go to war, to protect our reclaimed home.”

Everyone quietens.

“Use this night wisely.” He looks at each of them in turn. “I advise rest, however, I would not fault anyone for grasping the chance to spend a few last hours with their loved ones,” – his eyes slide towards the Ri-brothers, “and perhaps even use this time to bury old regrets.”

All around him heads nod solemnly, and he inclines his head in return, satisfied that his words have been heard and will be heeded.

Bard stands slightly apart, head bowed and clearly deep in thought, but before Thorin can turn around and avoid disturbing him, the bowman raises his head with a greeting on his lips.

“Those were powerful words,” Bard says quietly, his dark eyes roaming over the assembled dwarves, most of them either deep in conversation or busy setting up makeshift pallets.

Thorin’s lips twist. “I brought them here, to this eve of battle. It’s the least I owe them.”

There is a hint of a smile on Bard’s face when he returns, “And yet none of them seem to regret having followed you.”

“Well, I never claimed I had amassed the brightest troop,” Thorin says dryly. “And now please stop hovering in the corner and join me and my nephews.”

For a brief moment Bard looks surprised, but before Thorin can snap at him for being an idiot – _of course_ he wants the man by his side now, after all they have done for each other, even if he doesn’t necessarily _say_ it – he nods, something in his posture relaxing.

“I would be honoured.”

The night passes slowly, and yet far too soon the first rays of the sun peek over the mountains around them, heralding the beginning of what might be their last day.

*

Thorin cinches his new (old) vambraces, the last part of his armour to be strapped in place, hopefully to protect him from what is to come. He’d already made sure that every single member of his very small army is as well-fitted with armour and excellent weapons as is possible in such a short time, even Bard is now wearing bracers and a chest plate from a set of armour that can only have been from Dale before its destruction.

He looks around, and finds only grimly determined faces. Some fear, yes, as is only healthy, but no mindless panic that some can succumb to in the face of battle.

Only minutes before the charge, he draws Fíli and Kíli aside. There are no words for a moment such as this, so he only says, “Watch your back, both of you. Promise me that,” and lets his eyes and heart speak for him.

When he turns away from their nods, committing their young faces to memory, he finds Bard watching them, an expression of both loss and longing on his face. Behind Thorin twelve dwarves and a hobbit (who can certainly claim to be as stubborn as the rest of them) are amassing, their presence a comforting weight at his back, but for a heartbeat only the man and he exist.

They incline their heads in unison and turn to battle.

*

Thorin tries to tell himself that this battle is like any other, _just concentrate on the orcs, concentrate on surviving_ , but it’s no use. Even if he could bring himself to pretend that this isn’t special for the fact that they’re fighting in _Erebor’s_ shadow alone, today he fights to keep their home, only just earned back. He fights for all the injustices that have been heaped upon their shoulders since Smaug came, he fights for his nephews and his absent sister, for his loyal company. And, perhaps the least expected, he fights for Dale also, if for Bard’s sake. This battle, more than any other, he cannot afford to lose, would not _allow_ himself to lose.

At the first glance of the approaching army of orcs, goblins and wargs, a huge swarm of bats overhead, Thorin’s heart stops for a breath. These are more foul creatures than he’s ever seen in one place before, even Azanulbizar.

Thorin watches orcs and wargs filling the valley before him until he hears clear trumpets sound, followed by the darker, earthier sound of dwarven horns and three armies pour from the surrounding hills, setting upon the unsuspecting orcs with righteous strength.

He waits to see orcs turning in confusion, forgetting about Erebor for the moment, and nods at Bard and Dwalin on his either side.

“Go, we will cover your back,” Bard says and Dwalin nods gruffly, hands already wrapped around his two trusted axes.

Thorin takes a deep breath and then, with a mighty roar, he jumps down their barricade, swinging his sword in vicious arcs that no orc could easily escape. So he and his company at his back forge ahead through the battlefield, cutting a swath through orcs and wargs alike and Thorin barely has to recognize a danger to see an axe finding its mark or an arrow whirring past him to unerringly find its target.

And then a mighty roar splits the air and Azog and bears down on them, the biggest and most scarred of his whole army at his back.

Thorin’s eyes narrow, his shoulders square into a steady stance and he meets the Gundabad orc head on. All around him his company is fighting for their lives, Azog’s guards clearly having been instructed to keep them busy while their leader battles his old nemesis, and while Thorin dodges and dances desperately to avoid the heavy blows of Azog’s mace he can only barely make out flashes of gold and ginger and dark in the corner of his eyes as his loved ones fight for their lives.

This is what battle is, desperation, blood and sweat, the pounding of hearts strained to the breaking point and gasps of air in between bursts of movement and always _noise_ , horrible loud noise until ears ring with the screams of the dying and the clash of metal on metal.

And sometimes there will be a scream torn from a familiar voice and the split-second that Thorin is distracted by what he knows to be Fili's pain sends him flying, breath knocked out of him with the force of Azog’s blow and he falls heavily, armour digging into his skin. He watches, almost detached, as the giant orc jumps towards him, maze raised for the killing blow, and all he can think of is Fíli crying out in pain.

Thorin’s eyes close, a rush of wind and then a guttural scream.

Azog falls, an arrow in each eye, one short and sturdy and one long and slim.

A terrible cry rises up from the ranks of the orcs, and when Thorin heaves himself up with his good arm and looks around he sees blood and corpses as far as the eye can see, but the orcs are on the retreat and in the seconds he watches scores of them fall to glittering vengeful blades and arrows. Shrieking, the bats disperse and the sun emerges, illuminating the greatest battlefield of their time. Thorin smiles to see his company moving towards him, bloodied but yet whole – a tired little thing but more honest than he can remember it being in a long time.

A future dawns, they’ve survived the tipping point.

*

It had taken the better part of four months to get to this point, to Bard standing in Erebor’s massive throne room, clad in his finest garments, which now actually _are_ fine, he is still slightly bewildered to feel silk on his skin whenever he moves, watching King Thorin II rise on the dais and face the crowd with his head held high, the new crown glimmering like starlight in his dark hair. Next to him Sigrid, Bain and Tilda have all finally forgotten about the stiffness of their new ceremonial garb – which he can only be thankful for, getting Tilda into it in the first place had been enough of a fight – and are beaming at their favourite dwarf with surprising fervour. Or at least it would’ve been surprising a few months ago, now Bard can only beam in equally captivated sympathy.

They hadn’t been able to see each other much over the last few months, Thorin too busy rebuilding a kingdom and making sure of the safety of the mountain for the returning exiles. Bard himself spent most of his time going over plans for the rebuilding of Dale and hurting his head over the fair distribution of the gold that had flown from the mountain into the men’s hands.

That had been one of the times he’d seen Thorin, at the official presentation of the gold promised to them for their aid in Thorin’s quest and the defeat of Smaug, and Bard had been quietly worried at how pale Thorin had looked then, dark shadows under his eyes. Thorin had refused to elaborate beyond being drowned in work, but Bard had seen his glance at the coffers filled with gold and guessed at the true reason. Thorin’s smile had been bitter and yet earnest when, upon seeing Bard’s look, he had declared wryly that no, he wasn’t actually gold-sick but everyone expected him to be, including himself, and the paranoia was wearing him down. When Bard had baldly told him that he didn’t see where the problem was then, either he was sick or he wasn’t and he should gladly take the latter, Thorin had laughed, some warmth returning to his eyes.

_Seeing clearly where everyone else walks blind, Bard?_

He snorts quietly to himself. Clearly he’d been the blind one when only a few days later the council ambushed him with the news that they wanted him to become _King_ of Dale. _Him_ of all people. Though in the end the joke had been on him, as he’d actually found himself _accepting_ the bloody job after momentous amounts of badgering from both Thorin and Thranduil – it had annoyed the dwarf to no end, to have a common goal with the elf, but in this they had indeed been of a mind. He wonders if he can still get out of it by pleading coercion.

Then again… he looks up at the strong figure on the throne, cloaked in the same regal air that had struck Bard even not long after their first encounter and thinks that perhaps anything he can do to approach Thorin’s level is not such a bad thing after all. It might be a rather childish notion, after all Thorin has never so much as hinted that he cares about station like most of noble birth do and the dwarf he knows certainly doesn’t seem to, but who can fault him for wanting to be seen as worthy?

It’s not as if he can forget all three of his turncoat children constantly inquiring when they could see Thorin again – and he can’t even damn the dwarf for having made such an impression on the rest of his family when he’d made the exact same impression on _him_. No matter what Thorin says about his suitability for parenting (Bard has called dragon dung on that ages ago), his three lovable brats are certainly half in love with him already, and the way Thorin’s own nephews adore him speaks volumes as well – thankfully the Princes good cheer had hardly been dented by Fíli’s injury in the battle and the young dwarf now bears his scars and limp with pride. After their tenth inquiry, Bard had finally broken and told them about Thorin’s opinion of his own capabilities, which had led to a lot of shocked faces and then an even greater lot of whispered planning. He has no doubt that whatever they come up with, Thorin will be hard-pressed to deny them – Bard just hopes the collateral damage will be kept to a minimum. After all they’d already helped talk him into accepting the kingship slightly less grudgingly than he otherwise might have, with infuriatingly reasonable arguments like who else he thought should do it and did he really want to have to lead another underground resistance in case the other guy messes it up? Considering that his children were part of the reason why he hadn’t wanted to do it in the first place, their support of the idea had put a serious dent in his own arguments.

And it had all led to here, this moment, so how can he complain?

Around him dwarves and men and even the odd elf are cheering loudly, but Bard only has eyes for Thorin, mouth dry with the first true happiness in a long while. Oh, there’d been relief after the battle, certainly, and even more when his little scamps had run into his arms, but he’d been too weary to be happy, worn out by life and the craziness that had become his new normal for days on end.

(Sometimes he thinks the craziness hasn’t _stopped_ since then.)

Thorin’s eyes find his, unerringly despite the crowd, and when he smiles, Bard is helpless not to smile back.

He doesn’t think it’s ever been done before, a man and a dwarf, and two kings no less, but with Thorin’s smile fresh in his memory, he’s willing to brave anything to try.

Let the histories talk.

 

 


End file.
